


Synthetic VII: Indulgences

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Series: Synthetic [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Past Abuse, Rape Recovery, mixed up boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8408776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: The moment everything really does start to change. Post-rape. Brothers. Love. And no, no happy ending yet...





	

Synthetic VII: Indulgences  
Kitty Fisher

 

He stands in the shower for a long time – just letting the heat pull some of the ache out of his body. One hand braced on age-pitted tiles, staring sightlessly at the water swirling past his bare feet, Dean lets the spray pour onto his neck, feeling it run in rivulets down his skin. All he can hear is the rush of water, all he can taste is peppermint. The other tastes - of bile and blood and cock - are just phantoms. They can’t really be there, lingering in the recesses of his mouth and throat. Not after all the mouthwash – not after cleaning his teeth until his gums bled

He never used to get this fucked-up by…stuff.

It was part of the job, part of his duty – and complaining about war wounds was for wusses.

Somehow though, this is different. Maybe because of Sam. Because Sam was there…

Shying away from the thought, Dean curses, and water trickles past his lips. He lets it. Tilting his head as his mouth fills, the fluoride-tang strong, mixing bitterly with the mint. Pressing up with his tongue, he coughs, almost chokes.

And jerks around as the shower door slides open.

“You okay?”

Dean’s still coughing, but he waves a hand – _fine_

His brain isn’t really switched on, because Sam’s getting in the shower with him before Dean even realizes his brother is naked. And _Jesus Christ_ – the bruises…

“Fuck, Sam… those bastards…” Hesitantly, he reaches out, wanting to touch the marks, wanting nothing more on earth than to be able to heal with a brush of his fingers, or the caress of his palm. But Sam slips inside his guard. Breath catches in Dean’s chest as Sam’s arms slide gently around his body, pulling them together until the shower sprays and cascades around the two of them.

Blinking away the water that’s fracturing his sight, Dean shakes his head, frowning. “Hey.”

“I was worried about you.”

“Oh.” Dean thinks about it, wonders how long he’s been shut away. “I was taking a shower.”

“Still are.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Guess I am.”

It’s weird, almost like it’s a stranger holding him, and Dean feels his body lock up, so his muscles are stiff, resisting as he deals with an intimacy he’s not really sure about. Which is fucked-up dumb. But man, it’s easier to deal when you know what the assholes are after. He’s no idea what Sam wants.

Apparently though, Sam knows all about Dean.

Because nothing happens. Sam just stands there, with Dean clasped loosely in his arms. Glancing up, Dean sees nothing but serenity on the close, water-bright face. And that’s okay.

Interestingly, he notices that Sam’s shoulder is just the right height. Moving slowly, he lets his head rest, just there, and slides both hands up the strong, straight length of Sam’s water-slick back, until bony shoulderblades curve under his palms. He can feel the rise and fall of Sam’s breathing; relentless, comforting, perfectly whole. Warm, flesh-and-blood evidence of survival.

He doesn’t close his eyes, but simply stands still, and it feels a little like they’re slow-dancing, without movement or music. Sam shifts, holding a little more tightly. There’s nothing sexual about it, and Dean shivers – which earns him a kiss. A brotherly kiss, chaste, as if for a child. A different child. The child Dean Winchester never was.

He doesn’t do regret. Doesn’t do it at all.

Except maybe this – that he’s not what Sam should want. And yet that he’s not strong enough to push Sam away. Not strong enough to stand alone. If he has sinned – and he knows he has, for the priest who owned him for one long summer was careful to instill both fear of that sin and a delicately balanced reverence for it into his childhood self – then this is the sum of that. That he’s finally fallen in love with the brother he’s always loved. And there’s not strength enough in him to turn Sam away. Or to turn away himself.

“What you thinking?”

Dean shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Tell me…” 

Sam’s voice is soft, muffled by the rush of shower-water, and by the press of his lips into Dean’s hair. Enclosed in Sam’s arms, surrounded by water and heat, shut into the shower stall, the motel door locked, the threshold salted – this is safety. Near as it gets. The beating they’ve both taken will wear off. He’ll even forget why it happened. This moment? This he’ll remember forever.

“Just, you know, stuff.”

“About what happened?”

“No, not really.” Sighing, Dean lifts his head, finds himself facing Sam’s wide-eyed, intense scrutiny, its sharpness hardly clouded by the steam that rises around them. “Other stuff.”

“Thank you – that really helps.” Sam’s lips twitch though, and he smiles, slowly, the warmth of it enough to melt ice.

Dean feels something break inside him. Something that hurts, like a blade flicking into the skin, quick and fine-edged, so the hit of pain comes a beat or two after the incision. And he doesn’t mean to, doesn’t want to, but he flinches – which is the wrong reaction, because he sees it hurting Sam, and that hurts more. “Sorry…”

Dean goes to turn, to run, but Sam holds him, pulls him into a huge embrace that denies everything but the existence of _them_. Here. Now. This. Language in the simple connection of touch, of skin on skin.

Somehow Dean’s just breathing, in and out, listening to Sam whispering words that make no sense, but still manage to calm him. The words fade – into a murmur, then into nothing. 

After the silence, he hears his name, as a question. “Dean…?”

“Yeah.” His own voice sounds choked - the one word twisted awkwardly into three parts.

“Kiss me?”

And that is more of a miracle than anything else in a pretty damn miraculous twenty-four hours. Just _being asked_ by this one person who doesn’t need to. But he nods, shrugging slightly, feeling the shift of Sam’s hands on his skin. “Sure.” 

Lifting his head, he sighs, offers his mouth. The first kiss is sweet, shrouded by water as it flows down their faces. It’s an assent. An indulgence; a charm against the future. Dean angles his neck, parts his lips, and moans as Sam’s tongue slips delicately into his mouth. Suddenly there’s hunger – ravening hunger. Dean moans, leaning forward, feeling the water change course so it’s falling on his shoulder, misting into their faces as they lock together, mouth to mouth, and their cocks lift, slide, push up together, pressed between them.

He goes to move, to kneel, but Sam’s there before him, and all Dean can do is gasp, wordless, awestruck, as his brother opens wide and sucks him. Dean lasts about a minute, and after, he’s shaking so hard and his muscles are so weak he falls, kneeling with Sam in the shower stall, kissing him long and deep and hard, tasting himself and Sam until, finally, the bitter shadow-taste is gone.

He touches Sam’s cock, just brushes his fingers up its length, and Sam chokes on a breath, coming hard. Spunk hits Dean’s belly and chest and he watches the orgasm as it rips across Sam’s face. All he can think is – _you’re beautiful_. The words slipping after each other, again and again.

*

Later, he awakes cold and shivering – even though he knows the room is warm. The worst of it is that he can remember Sam, solid against him as he fell into sleep, and now there is no one in the bed alongside him.

Which is okay. Absolutely fine. 

Lying very still, his eyes closed, Dean feels the weight of himself as he lies still, the solidity of muscle and bone, curled under coarse sheets. But all of it is curiously unreal – as if it’s someone else’s body, someone else’s cold skin. The bed feels different too, without Sam. But the sleeping alone part is nothing unusual. He prefers it. It’s been many years since he slept with someone – as in actually _slept_ with them. Oh, he’s fucked girls all night, stayed up with them talking, drinking, even - on one particularly fucked up Winchester-fest of a date - being drunk from. But the actual sleeping? Not so much. And with men - never. Not willingly. 

It’s pretty damn stupid that he wants Sam now. Wants him in ways he’s never thought about, not even imagined until that moment when Sam stared at him, tied up and welted from a crappy beating, and just _understood_.

The pillow smells of cheap detergent and, distantly, the spiciness of Sam’s cologne. Dean presses his face in deeper, and breathes - which makes his ribs burn. The bed shifts, and Sam’s there, sliding in behind him – and moving so gently that Dean doesn’t have time to panic, to wonder who it is, because of course it’s Sam. There’s no reason to think anything else.

“Fuck, you’re cold!”

“Yeah.” There’s an amount of wriggling, then Sam’s wrapped around Dean, one arm pulling them close, spooned together so he’s aware of the length of Sam body from the lips pressing into his shoulder to the lax weight of genitals, down past hairy thighs and bony knees to long, warm feet that tuck up into his own, rubbing gently. “Thought you’d gone back to your own bed.”

“Nope. I had a _why am I asleep at three in the afternoon_ moment – so I went into the bathroom and checked over the maps.”

“You could have done that here.”

“Didn’t want to wake you.”

Dean moves his arm and lays his hand over his brother’s. “Thanks. So, where are we?”

“Still Tennessee, but two counties along – we’re safe enough.”

“Great.” Dean nods.

“Go back to sleep.”

“There’s shit we need to do…”

“Like what?”

But Dean can’t think of anything urgent, nothing that needs doing right this minute. He shivers when Sam kisses his shoulder.

“Dean, come on, sleep.”

Curiously enough, he does.

:::

When Dean awakes again, he’s not so zoned. He’s stiff though – painkillers never last long enough. He turns onto his back, and just holds his breath as every muscle, every tendon, protests.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Stoic…”

“What?”

“It’s Greek. The official translation is ‘fucked up Winchester tough-guy’.” 

“Oh, that. Fucked up, maybe. Tough? I couldn’t wrestle a dishcloth right now.”

“Hang on.” Sam slips out of the bed, though he’s back almost immediately. It’s close to dark, streetlight spilling in around the blinds. There’s a cup cradled in his hands. Dean looks up, and wonders how it all came to this. How he let all the need that’d been bottled up inside for so long, out into the light for Sam to see. How in all the years he’s been watching Sam like a hawk, he’s never really seen him. Never seen how strong he is.

“You need more Tylenol.”

It’s not actually a question, but there’s a moment when he considers saying no. Then he tries to sit up. “Shit... Guess so.”

Sam ends up helping, his hand warm and careful around the bruises that circle his wrist. The ones that match the ones around Sam’s. Dean shivers, his stomach clenching at the reminder. 

“Here.”

Obediently, Dean takes it, making a face as the powdery tablet catches in his throat. He hands the cup over, then just falls back onto the pillow, before curling on to his side.

“You coming back to bed?” The question’s out before he can bite it back, and he can’t change the tone or pitch, or the stupid _neediness_ that leaks out in the spaces between the words. 

“Idiot. Just move over.”

Dean moves. Listens as the cup is put down on the bedside table, holds his breath as the bedsprings groan when Sam lies down next to him. The instant Sam’s hand curls around his hipbone, he’s hard.

Keeping very still, he hopes that Sam doesn’t notice – or care. The tip of his cock brushes against the sheet, sensation spiking up so viciously that he bites the inside of his mouth, closing his eyes, screwing them tight until the darkness sparkles with bright pinpoints of light.

It’s wrong wanting to be fucked. It’s wrong wanting _Sam_ to fuck him. To hurt him… It’s all wrong. And it’s more than wanting, it’s a bone-deep craving. Needing anything this much is shameful – needing this? It’s almost beyond his ability to deal with. After all, shame alone is something he’s lived with for a long time. This is something else…

“Hey…”

Dean freezes. But the warmth of Sam’s hand shifts and his fingers unerringly find Dean’s shaft. The spike of reaction is so intense that Dean has to bite the pillow. And he’s panting, balanced on a knife-edge of arousal - until he feels Sam start to slide down the bed. 

He gasps. Because, out of everything he wants, out of everything he fucking _needs_ , this isn’t it – perfect and wonderful and completely generous as it would be. Sure, he wants miracles. Most of all? He wants Sam to make him whole. Just for a moment - a sliver of time - he wants to feel as if completion is possible. Completion - and the balm of forgiveness.

He turns, and his hands force Sam into place, stop him from moving. Their eyes are level, and Dean can only beg. “Sam…please…”

Shadowed eyes narrow as they meet his own. “Dean…?”

God, he’s going to sound like such a sick fuck. Well, he is. “Fuck me. Please.”

Oh, that reaction is pain. It shifts across Sam’s face, hunted by a pack of difficult, awkward emotions. Dean watches as Sam swallows, hesitates, and then finally decides on calm. “You’re hurting.”

“Not that much.”

“Dean, Jesus, you’re such a liar….”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Dean turns more onto his stomach, pressing his cock into the bed, trying to bury it.

“No, no. It’s not.” Sam’s face presses into Dean’s neck and his hands touch, but not quite, fingertips like insect wings against Dean’s skin. He sounds so confused. “You can’t need this?”

“I know.” He nods, agreeing, even though what he really wants is Sam to press his fingers into the bruises that bloom across his skin. He wants Sam to punish him for getting it wrong, for putting him in danger, for all the damage Sam took before Dean worked out a way to stop it. And if that punishment resolves itself as comfort in his head? What’s wrong with that? He’s knelt in confession, had his sins exorcised by far less gentle means.

“Dean, look at me.”

Yeah. Right. _Ask for something easy, why don’t you?_

“Now.”

Dean shifts uneasily. But the command is an imperative. It tears at him, but training (compliance, submission, obedience) wins. Hissing a curse, softly under his breath, the venom aimed entirely at himself, he turns his head, his face hot from where it’s been pressed into the pillow.

Sam looks at him calmly. “If I fuck you, I’ll hurt you.” He’s speaking slowly, carefully.

Dean nods. Shrugs. Then gasps out loud as Sam’s fingers circle his cock. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. But…” Sam shakes his head slowly, a frown slicing between his eyebrows. “It won’t be possible not to. You know, part of me thinks I’m insane.”

It takes Dean a moment, and then he realizes what Sam’s actually said, and his cock leaks pathetically into Sam’s palm, while he tries not to whimper. “You’re not.” Dean tries not to buck his hips, tries not to whore himself for this. He even finds words amongst the morass of wanting that fills his head. “Please…Sam…”

“A fuck won’t cure you!”

“No?” Dean laughs, the sound nothing but a knot of tension. “Sam, I’ve spent my life being cured by a good fuck!”

“All the girls?”

“Sure.”

“The…” Sam hesitates, shrugs an apology, “the whoring?”

“Sometimes.”

“And Dad?”

That catches him hard, and Dean closes his eyes, just for the briefest of moments, but the darkness is no refuge – and it holds no answers at all. He can’t respond because he doesn’t know how to, so he just shrugs again, as if all this is nothing, as if he’s not really lying in bed, begging his brother to fuck him – and silently, but no less fervently, begging his brother to stop asking questions he can’t deal with.

“Hey, Sam, you gonna fuck me or not?”

Sam nods, as if he’s had his answer. He lifts a hand and cups Dean’s cheek, his thumb rubbing back and forth. From the way his skin burns, Dean knows there’s a bruise there, under Sam’s thumb, and he sighs gently.

“Yeah.” The fingers slide up and into Dean’s hair. “You’re such a mystery…

“Yeah – says Mr. Mystical!”

“There’s a difference.”

Dean knows. But he smiles, and wonders if Sam would freak if he asks to be tied up. Decides that yep, that’s quite probable. Instead he presses closer, lets his body speak, lets it brush and touch and be there. For Sam. Whose thighs part slightly at the insistence of his own, and who’s aroused, but not fully hard, his cock a weighty, curving length that jerks and lifts as Dean’s hip nudges it. 

“Ah, fuck, Dean – I should say no…”

“Please don’t. Just…Please?”

Sam shivers, and his cock leaps, suddenly thick and washboard stiff. “Man, you’re killing me…”

But his lips are on Dean’s, and the kiss is all about intensity, and a need that flows between them. Opening his mouth, Dean shivers as Sam sucks his bottom lip, teeth just there, biting gently. There’s blood, his or Sam’s, tasting of salt and life, and he feels Sam jerk hard against him, groaning softly, the sound filling Dean’s mouth and head, and sounding again when Dean bites him back, following the sharp catch of teeth with a lick that traces Sam’s wide lips before slipping inside his mouth, flicking at his tongue.

Sam pushes on top of him, his body covering Dean’s, the weight of him pressing Dean into the bed so he can’t move, can only lie there as Sam tongue-fucks deep into his mouth, again and again, until Dean just dissolves into nothing but need. There’s no pain. Not as such. Instead it twists into something quite different, forced there by Sam’s hands and mouth – and the burning need of cock pulsing against his own.

When Sam pulls back, Dean turns over, flattening himself on the bed, spreading his thighs. There’s a part of him that wants to just be _fucked_ , but Sam wriggles down and licks into his ass. Licks. Dean arches up, his mouth open, silently screaming as he shudders through the wet slip and slide of tongue pushing into him, opening him, fucking him just as mercilessly as Sam had fucked his mouth; deep and relentless, tongue-tip pressing past bruised flesh, pushing in, pulling out, then just grinding deeper until Dean’s shuddering uncontrollably, fingers clawing desperately at the sheets while tremors ripple like fire through his nerves.

He’s sobbing, mindless, when Sam finally moves, kisses him there - just a press of lips between his cheeks - before climbing up his body and then it’s not lips, but a cockhead pressing into his ass, slipping on saliva until Sam, cursing, holds himself in place and just _pushes_.

All the way.

Dean whites-out into nothing. He’d scream, but there’s no air. There’s no bed, no room, no world, and he’s spinning away, disintegrating into space - until Sam takes hold of his wrists, and anchors him back into himself. Fingers pressing into bone-deep bruises, his brother holds tight.

“Stay here…”

“Sam…”

“No. Stay. This is me.” His hips jerk forward, joining them – deep as he can go. “Don’t run away, Dean. Feel me inside you. Feel me _fuck_ you.”

Dean nods, his lips catching on the sheet, cotton tearing at broken skin. “Sam…”

Broad thumbs rub slowly, back and forth as he pulls back, holding himself poised, his breath fast and tight as it scuds past Dean’s ear. “You’re mine.”

This thrust is harder. Dean groans, the sound wet and lush, threaded with pain and longing. 

“ _Only_ mine!”

Dean nods. Shudders as Sam bites his neck. “Yes…”

“Oh, God… Dean…”

Sam breaks against him, jerking as he falls forward, his panting mouth pressing to Dean’s skin, his cock pulsing as it empties into Dean’s body and Dean writhes silently, his own spunk spattering, hot and wet, to soak into the sheet.

It’s a long time before Sam moves. His softened cock slips slowly, gently, from Dean’s body. Dean disguises his wince by turning onto his side, moving away, until Sam’s hands catch him, hold him so Sam can shift closer, curling behind him. Around him.

“How bad is it?”

Dean thinks. Shrugs. He aches, sure (wants to sleep for a week, wants Sam to hold him forever and not ask any more questions), but inside, in his head, he feels fine. Calm. Just… fine. “Better.”

“Idiot, that’s not what I meant!”

“It’s what matters.” 

And that simple answer stops Sam in his tracks. After a moment he nods. “Yeah.”

Dean sighs, almost smiling. For a long moment he lies there, content to watch Sam’s fingers stroking over his hand.

He must have drifted into sleep, for the buzz of a cell ringing wakes him. Sam’s reaching across to the bedside table to pick it up and read the caller ID. He flicks it open, which makes Dean instantly alert.

Sam listens, but all he does in reply is nod. Then he says, in a voice that sounds like a stranger’s. “We’ll be there.” Then he snaps the phone shut.

“Who?” But Dean knows.

“Dad. We’re supposed to meet him in a week’s time.”

“A week?” Dean props himself up on one elbow.

“Mmm.”

“So, we going?”

“Oh, yes, I think so.” Dean watches as Sam thinks – as emotions flicker in his bleak eyes. Then Sam just reaches for him, hands gripping tight to Dean’s shoulders. “We go. But whatever there was between you and dad, we end it – there and then.”

Dean nods. Wonders, distantly, how.

“And, Dean? I’ll try real hard not to kill him.”

“It won’t come to that.”

“No. It won’t.” Sam looks deep into his eyes, and then falls back onto the bed, pulling Dean with him.

 

The End


End file.
